Hellhole Ratrace
by thephoenixandtheflame
Summary: The last person that Hermione Granger expected to see at a muggle club was Draco Malfoy. "Sometimes you've just gotta make it for yourself. Sometimes honey, it just takes someone else." - Hellhole Ratrace, Girls
1. Chapter 1

**Central London, 9 am **

"Ah. Ms. Granger."

"Hello, sir."

Hermione Granger settled herself on the chaise lounge in the tiny, opulent room. A small, wrinkly, bearded man sat across from her at a large desk, shuffling paper absently before he stood, abruptly, and marched over to a small, hard backed chair that stood directly facing the lounge.

"So." He squinted at the clipboard he was holding for a moment, and then tossed it aside. Crossing his legs, he leaned back in the chair and fixed Hermione with an appraising look. "How are you?"

Hermione shifted slightly. "I'm fine, sir. Work has been going well."

Dr. Falkirk raised his eyebrows. "Is that what I asked?"

They did this every month. Dr. Falkirk would ask her how she was, and Hermione would say fine. And then, Dr. Falkirk would glare at her, and Hermione would fidget. She couldn't get used to telling someone else how she was feeling, no matter how qualified they were to be hearing it.

When Hermione didn't speak, the little old man leaned forward. "Alright, we'll start with something simple. What does a day look like for you right now?"

"Well, I get up and feed Crookshanks. Then, I go to work. Then I get home and eat dinner and usually read something for an hour or so. If I've got work to do, I do that. After I read, I go to bed and do it all again the next morning."

"And on the weekends?"

Hermione sighed. "I usually clean my apartment and then I do a food shop for the week. Sometimes I go to the bookshop and pick out a few new things to read. On Sundays, I go to the Burrow for dinner with the Weasley's and Harry. And – that's it. If I've got work on Sunday, I generally don't go to the Burrow, which has been a bit – well, I've been busy. "

Dr. Falkirk's expression remained impassive. "No plans? No travel, or anything like that? Nights out?"

"Er, no. I go to see my parents every other week. And I don't really – go out," Hermione said, rather lamely, picking at her fingernail, "I haven't got time, you see."

"What about dates? Are you going on any dates?"

Hermione wanted to scream "you know as well as I do that I haven't," but she took a deep, calming breath instead. "No, no dates."

"Not since you broke up with – Ron, was it?"

"No," Hermione said, through gritted teeth, "Like I said, I've been busy."

Dr. Falkirk seemed, as usual, completely ignorant of her exasperation.

"What about the nightmares?"

Hermione twisted her fingers in her lap. She didn't know how to explain the way that sleeping felt these days. Mostly it was a dangerous free fall through the darkest parts of her mind, a journey back through the things she could hardly bear to think about.

"They're – the same. I don't sleep much."

"Ah," Dr. Falkirk was not looking at her. His gaze was directed out the window, into the sunny courtyard on the inside of the buildings. They sat for a few moments, in silence.

"I don't know," Hermione said, very quietly, "How to find my way back."

"What do you mean?"

She took another deep breath, her hands shaking slightly. "I can't get out of this – place. In my head. It feels like I'm at the bottom of a hole, and everyone's passing overhead, and the sun is shining and – I'm just down here, wishing I could get out and not knowing how."

Dr. Falkirk nodded, his little silver spectacles glinting in the afternoon sun. "And how does this make you feel? Do you feel that you deserve to be there?"

Hermione stared at the floor. "Useless. Inadequate. Guilty. Hopeless. And I'm so-so sad. I used to be so – I don't know. Excited, about everything. I still love my job, and I work hard, but sometimes it feels –pointless."

Dr. Falkirk nodded, gravely, frowning slightly. After a moment, he spoke.

"Do you want to get out of the hole, Hermione?"

"Yes – yes, of course I do."

"Are you willing to do what I ask of you?"

Hermione stared at him. "What are you asking of me, sir?"

Dr. Falkirk smiled. "I want you to go out with your friends one night this week and go dancing – or whatever you like, really. The only real requirement is that you leave the house and spend some time out, with your friends. Also - I want you to leave work at work this week- Ms. Granger, I am quite serious," he said, sternly, as Hermione made a small noise of derision, "I would imagine that your supervisor will not mind, as according to your parents, you are frequently several weeks ahead with your reports."

"I'm sorry, but how is this supposed to help with the nightmares?" For the last few months, the months since her parents had referred her to this strange muggle psychologist, he had listened to her talk. Then, he had nodded, informed her that her time was up, and sent her on her merry way. It had felt very ineffective and pointless, but her parents insisted she keep going. Falkirk was a friend of theirs, and allegedly very good at his job.

"Why don't we see how it goes?" Falkirk offered her another one of his small, all knowing smiles. He then got up and marched back to his desk. "Have a lovely day, Ms. Granger."

**The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, 12 pm**

"Hermione. Hermione. Hellooo-"

"Oh – hello Ginny, sorry, let me finish this notice," Hermione scribbled out a few more lines on the memo in front of her and bewitched it to sail across the office and out the door. Ginny Weasley was propped on the side of her desk, arms folded over the bookshelf that stood against the end. She looked red faced and was sporting a Holyhead Harpies sweatshirt, her hair in a tangled plait.

"Don't rush on my behalf," she said, scanning the empty office, "I was just wondering if you wanted to get some lunch or something – I stopped by to ask Harry but he's got a load of new trainees to deal with. Practice got out an hour ago and I could eat my own hand."

"Er – "Hermione checked her watch and looked ruefully at her packed lunch in its little floral lunchbox. Remembering Falkirk's words, she looked up at Ginny. "Yes, I'll go. The Cauldron?"

"Nah," Ginny made a face, "I found this little café around the corner from here that's loads better. Not so many people staring, either."

The girls left the ministry to a chilly, windy, October day, a drizzle starting halfway to the café. Ginny led Hermione to a tiny restaurant with blue shutters and a clay pot of flowers sitting outside the door. The sign over the entrance read "Bluebell Café." Inside was a cramped case of pastries and a few rickety tables sitting under the glimmer of about a hundred strands of fairy lights. An older woman with iron gray curls led them to a table in the back, where they ordered a pot of tea and two bowls of stew.

"I love this place," said Ginny, looking around. "Sort of feels like the Burrow. There's never anyone in here and the food is amazing – not as good as Mum's, but not bad."

"I like it," observed Hermione, "It's cozy."

"So," Ginny took a long swig of water and fixed Hermione with a serious look, "How'd it go with Falkirk?"

"It was alright," Hermione said, fiddling with her napkin, "I'm never quite sure what we're trying to accomplish. He just asks me about my week and if I'm still having trouble sleeping. Except – "

"I still don't understand why you'd go to a muggle psychologist over a healer, I mean-"

"Muggle psychology is a really complicated field. It's really hard to become a doctor, because you have to understand how the brain works and how to treat it."

"Hm," Ginny looked skeptical, "What did he tell you?"

"That's the odd part," Hermione frowned, "He told me to go out dancing with my friends, one night this week."

"He did?"

"Yes, which feels – I don't know, unprofessional. It's not exactly a recognized method for treating trauma. And besides, I've got way too much going on to be able to do that sort of thing." She paused, wrapping a hand around her teacup. "It's just silly."

"I don't know," Ginny said, thoughtfully, "The doc-what do you call it? He might have something there."

"What do you mean?"

"It's not exactly a secret that you're a bit of a workaholic, Hermione. Oh, don't give me that look, you know it's true. I don't remember the last time you even went out with the girls. We're quite fun, you know," she blew on her stew and took a small bite. "Blimey, that's good."

Hermione sighed noisily. She was used to the little digs about her work ethic, but her lack of social life had never really bothered her. As much as she liked Ginny, and Luna and Hannah and Angelina, they tended to be a bit – what was the word? Irresponsible? Was irresponsible worse than being depressed?

Bollocks.

Taking a small, wary bite of soup, Hermione smiled. "Oh, that is good."

"Right? Best in Diagon Alley."

After a moment of quiet stew eating, Hermione cleared her throat. "He – er – he asked me if I'd been out on any dates."

Ginny smirked. "What did you say?"

"Don't look at me like that. I've been on a few dates, alright?"

"Cormac McLaggen doesn't count as a date, Hermione. You left during the appetizers! Besides, I don't think he's been right in the head since you confunded him."

"Oh, please," Hermione brandished her spoon, "The only reason I left was his pitiful attempt to molest me while I was eating my salad, although, if we're being honest, I've no idea why I went out with him in the first place. It was horrific, really, I thought he was trying to put his big toe up my-"

Ginny snorted soup all over the table and Hermione rolled her eyes.

They finished lunch and made tentative plans to have the girls over at Hermione's flat that night, after which she made her way back to the ministry, casting a very subtle impervious charm against the downpour. The rest of the day flew by in a haze of meetings and Creature Justice reporting, and by the end of it, Hermione would have rather cuddled with a blast ended skrewt than ventured out into the blustery October evening.

**1455 Grimstead Way, 9 pm**

"What if we just stayed in and had some wine, and, you know-"

"Read a book? Braided each others hair? Twiddled our thumbs?" Ginny was draped over Hermione couch, a glass of wine in one hand, her foot dangling off the arm. "You've barely been out since the breakup and I think it would do you a little good to – how did McGonagall put it? Let your hair down? Plus – this is sort of an assignment, isn't it?"

Hermione sighed. "Don't move!" admonished Angelina Johnson, who was attempting to use her wand to defrizz Hermione's hair. Luna Lovegood and Hannah Abbott were sprawled on the carpet, Luna attempting to apply lurid blue eyeshadow to Hannah's waterline while she giggled uncontrollably.

Hermione glared at Ginny. "And what do you propose I do? Give the Prophet more of a reason to call me a no-good slag for ending it with your brother? If I so much as look the way of another wizard there'll be an editorial about how much I've been getting around in tomorrow's paper."

"Which is why we're going to a muggle pub, Hermione," Ginny said, waving her arm, "Hannah says it's called a-what is it called, Han?"

"A club, Ginny, a dance club," Hannah was examining her eyeshadow in a hand mirror, "You know, Luna, I think I rather like it!"

"Ooh, thank youuuu," Luna smiled up at Hermione, "Do you want me to do you next, Hermione?"

"Er, no, it's alright, Luna," Hermione was not quite as brave about her makeup as Hannah and was quite sure she'd end up looking like a circus clown. Luna's own virulent green eye shadow was quite the shock as it was.

The next hour was a flurry of movement as the girls dressed and finished their wine, arguing over bits of clothing and pulling on coats, then hurriedly partnering up to apparate off the stoop and into Muggle London.

The club itself was wood paneled and opened into a wide dance floor, with a large bar behind it. There was a small flight of steps that led to another floor, with an even larger bar and a set of red and white dart boards in the back. It was dark and cavernous, a song by the Killers blasting over the speakers. It was still a little early for what Hermione assumed would be typical bar debauchery, and most people were milling about, ordering drinks and playing darts.

"This is fun," a brilliant smile lit Ginny's face as she took her surroundings in, "The music's much better and you can dance. What do you usually drink?"

Hannah and Hermione, being the only two people with muggle relatives, and a working knowledge of muggle drinks, took it upon themselves to order everyone a round of ciders and a sort of mixed shot that tasted like lemons.

They had been dancing for an hour or so, finishing and reordering drinks, meandering down onto the second level of the club. It was then that Hermione caught a flash of white blonde hair from the end of the lower bar. Her stomach turned over.

"Is that…?" She squinted at the figure sitting at the bar, stirring his drink. "It can't be…"

Angelina and Ginny spoke at the same time. "Malfoy?"

Luna, who was rotating in a small circle a few feet from them, waving her arms around her head, came swaying up to them. "Who are you looking at?" Ginny pointed grimly at Malfoy and Luna nodded enthusiastically.

"Ooh, yes, he's been here for ages. There is a positive swarm of nargles over his head, I noticed them right when he came in." She smiled serenely, looking from witch to witch as if expecting them to exclaim "surely not!"

"What the hell is he doing here?" asked Hannah, bopping in time to the song, a remix of what sounded like Jimmy Eat World.

"Probably the same thing we're doing," said Ginny, darkly, crossing one leg over the other and glaring at him, "Avoiding the wizarding gaze."

"With muggles?" Hermione was surprised. She knew from Harry that Malfoy had been working hard on reintegration into society – Harry said he was much easier to get along with and had lost most of his antiquated blood prejudice, although he did occasionally describe the former Death Eater as an "arrogant dickhead." Despite all of this, it was still a bit shocking to see him sitting at the bar, drinking what looked to be bourbon, in a muggle pub in muggle London.

"Should we go talk to him?" Luna intoned, dreamily waving in his general direction.

"Bollocks," Ginny snorted, "I'm not talking to the-wait, Hermione – where are you going?"

It was probably the 3 shots, Hermione thought briefly, or the ciders, but she had barely registered Luna's words before taking off towards Malfoy, tripping a little over the soles of her boots.

She slid into the seat beside him, not really looking at him, giving him a minute to register who he was sitting next to.

"You lose a bet?" came the sneering voice next to her, after a moment's pause. "Is that why you've deigned to say hello?"

"I'm not saying hello," Hermione turned in her seat and felt her breath catch slightly. There was no denying he looked exhausted, but something about him was different, somehow. He looked like he'd filled out a bit, the pointed face more angular now, muscular even through his cashmere sweater. In short, he looked much fitter than Hermione had remembered. "What are you drinking?"

"I don't need you to buy me drinks, Granger," Draco Malfoy scoffed, "I'm perfectly capable of getting my own."

Hermione ignored this. "Are you here alone?"

"I'm not that pathetic," he gestured to a familiar dark-haired boy who was chatting up a scantily clad brunette, "Blaise is over there."

"Thought Zabini was a bit of a purist," Hermione sipped her drink, fixing Malfoy with an appraising look.

"Are you trying to make a point, Granger?" Draco turned on his stool, his expression hostile.

"No," said Hermione, coolly, "Merely wondering why you're sitting at a muggle bar on a weekend by-well, with Blaise."

"I'd think that would be obvious."

"To avoid prying eyes?"

Draco absorbed this without comment, shrugging his shoulders and turning back towards the bar.

"What are you drinking?"

"Alcohol, Granger. I'm not picky."

"Fine. Bushmills, please?" She directed this at the surly bartender, who poured a healthy measure of liquid into a sifter and nudged it towards her. Malfoy didn't thank her, rather he seemed to be even more focused on the empty glass in front of him.

"Well," Hermione handed him the glass. "I realize this isn't a very enticing offer, but the girls and I are over there, if you'd like some company." She pointed towards Ginny, Angelina and Hannah, who were staring at them, heads together. Luna seemed to have wandered off again.

"No thanks," smirked Malfoy, "Think I'll stay and wallow for a bit."

"Suit yourself." Hermione slipped off the bench and made to head back across the bar when she heard him speak.

"Thanks for the drink, Granger."

Smiling to herself, she swayed her hips a little to the music, her chest feeling a little lighter.

_Draco Malfoy had not been expecting to see Hermione Granger that night, and in a way he felt he hadn't. That long legged, curvy, curly haired vixen that had approached him with a drunken stumble, her cream colored sweater falling off her shoulder, couldn't be the buck toothed swot he'd known since age 11. She smelled stupidly intoxicating, and fruity, unaware of her own effect on him. _

_He was a couple drams of whiskey deep – more than a couple, really, but this was the only place where he could drink and sulk without being whispered about and stared at. So that was why, when he saw Granger, it stirred some odd urge in him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt attracted to someone like that, and in a way it was primal – the smell of her made his mouth water. _

_What the hell was wrong with him? _


	2. Chapter 2

**Harry Potter's Office, the next day**

"So you lot went out last night?" Harry Potter sat at his desk, shoving a sheaf of parchment to the side and tucking into the sandwich Hermione had set down for him. She settled into the chair across from him and began unwrapping her own sandwich. His office was large and cozy, with its own fireplace and a large set of mahogany bookshelves. It was a product of his recent promotion to Head Auror, and although Harry had been a bit wary of it at first, Hermione had to admit it suited him.

Hermione nodded. "Did Ginny tell you who we saw?"

"Not yet," said Harry, mouth full of chicken and ham, "Night shift. I'm going home in an hour. Who was it?"

"Draco Malfoy. In a muggle pub."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "What was he doing?"

"Drinking. Sulking, I think. It was all very odd."

"Nothing suspicious, though?"

"No," Hermione frowned, "I did offer to buy him a drink, but-"

"You did what?" Harry laughed in surprise, "Never thought I'd hear you say that. And what did he think of that?"

"He was a bit rude about it, honestly, but-I don't know. It was just very surreal. I never thought I'd see him or Blaise Zabini in a place like that, I suppose. Makes me wonder what the last few years have been like for him." Hermione paused, frowning, her sandwich forgotten in her lap.

"Zabini was there?"

"Well, yes, but I didn't actually talk to him, he was making a pass at some girl…" Hermione trailed off, her eyes beginning to glaze over.

"I don't like that look on your face," Harry said, "I've got enough on my plate right now without you chasing Malfoy around and harassing him about his 'evolution through prejudice' or whatever."

"What are you insinuating?" Hermione asked, huffily, "I don't think there's anything wrong for me trying for some wizarding unity. Kingsley talks about it all the time, you know."

"I'm only saying that you tend to get a bit…you know, obsessive about your projects. You know, like SPEW and – "

"Oh, for goodness sake, Harry," Hermione said, holding back a laugh and standing up, tossing the forgotten remnants of her sandwich in the trash. "I'm going back to work. And it's not 'SPEW', it's S.P.E.W."

"Leave Malfoy alone, alright?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at him and strode out of the office, making a slight detour in her usual trek back to her own department. She turned left at the end of the corridor and marched into the Dark Arts Advisory unit, wondering what she was going to do when she got there.

"Malfoy."

His cube was so small that his limbs seemed to be folded into themselves. It abutted a charmed window, which was currently depicting a torrential downpour. Hermione wondered for a moment if that had anything to do with his current mood. The unit was mostly empty, apart from a wrinkled old witch who waved jovially at Hermione before shuffling out.

If Malfoy was surprised to see her, he hid it well. He looked disdainfully up at her, a lock of white blonde hair falling into his eyes. Despite the dark circles ringing his eyes, he was still painfully handsome.

"Come to gloat?"

"I did not," says Hermione, firing up at once. "I'm not here to argue with you, Malfoy, it's a waste of my time and yours. I just came here to say-to say that-"

Malfoy's extremely pale eyebrows jumped so high on his forehead that he temporarily looked a bit unhinged.

"I-I know this can't be easy, being back here and all and I appreciate you helping us out," she took a deep breath. "If you ever need someone to talk to about-well, anything, really, you can talk to me."

"I can?" Malfoy's sudden, sarcastic smile made Hermione wince internally.

"You don't have to be rude," she said, trying to keep her voice down, "I just thought that-"

"You thought what, exactly? That I want to sit around at the fucking Black Cat," his whisper came as more of a hiss, his mouth barely opening, "And listen to your opinions on the shithole that my life's been for 13 years? I'm not your fucking charity case, Granger. I don't need you and your precious little friends pretending to make amends with me, alright?"

Hermione stared at him for what felt like hours, somewhat taken aback. "Alright, then," she said, finally, surprised to find her voice wavering a little. She turned on her heel and marched back to her office, cursing herself for showing weakness. She couldn't afford to do it, not in front of him and especially not in the position she was in. Damn him, damn him, damn him. Why was he getting under her skin all the sudden? Why did she have a strange compulsion to help him?

**Central London, the next day**

Falkirk's office was full of burning candles today, which made the heavy curtains and ancient tapestries feel much stuffier than usual. Hermione was perched on the lounge, distractedly running through her conversation with Draco Malfoy while the doctor finished up his paperwork.

"So?" Falkirk interrupted her reverie, looking expectantly up from his desk. "How did it go?"

"I went out," said Hermione, slowly, "With my friends. And it was – fine. I was a bit slow getting up for work today, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt to get out a bit more."

"Ah," the doctor's face brightened, "And how did you feel?"

"I felt alright. It took my mind of things for a few hours. And – " Hermione stopped, abruptly, wondering how to tell him about Malfoy.

"Hm?"

"I saw an old – I suppose you could call him an acquaintance, but we weren't on the best terms in school, for a lot of reasons. I saw him at the pub, just drinking alone."

"Oh?" Dr. Falkirk looked interested, "Did you speak with him?"

"Yes – I did. I offered to buy him a drink, and now – I tried to speak to him today at the office, but he seemed angry that I'd approach him like that. I suppose he feels like everyone's making judgements about his past."

"He works with you?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." How did you explain Draco Malfoy to a perfect stranger, especially a muggle stranger? "He has a really horrible family and he used to have quite awful, prejudiced beliefs about a lot of things, but –"she paused for a moment, thinking.

"He's changed?" Falkirk offered, making a small note on his clipboard.

"Well, it's been a long time since I've seen him. He's gone through a lot. I suppose I'm just – curious about him. About how he's doing and why he's in a m-in a pub, by himself." Hermione caught herself, trying not to blush. Although Falkirk was a muggle, he did somewhat understand what had happened to Hermione due to a very minor memory modification (she had sworn she'd never do it again, but she had no idea how else to explain everything to him without giving him a heart attack.) She had to dance around several large themes of her life: magic, the press attention, her muggle heritage and the nature of her job. It wasn't necessarily as hard as it sounded, but she occasionally got the feeling that Falkirk knew more than he was letting on.

When Hermione finally left Falkirk's office that Friday, she picked up a bottle of wine at the corner market and poured herself a healthy measure before feeding Crookshanks and settling down to think.

She considered, for a moment, pulling out parchment and a quill, just to jot her thoughts down, but that was a bit much even for her. Gods, she did miss doing homework.

What books could she possibly refer to for this endeavor? Prejudices of Purebloods? Hating Muggles 101? Once a Death Eater, now a-what, exactly? Was she worse than him for thinking of him this way? As a prudish, purity driven dark wizard with a penchant for cruelty? Was he still like that?

The questions circled her brain like a ticker tape, an idea of a boy she couldn't quite reconcile with the man in the muggle pub. There was only one solution to this quandary, and it was slightly terrifying.

A few hours later, she looked at herself in the mirror, wondering if he would notice how wild her eyes were. Hermione Granger, going to a muggle pub by herself. It's for research, she assured herself, I just have to ask how he's doing, if he's there. Which he could very well not be, and then – well, then I never have to go back.

Hermione pulled on her coat before she lost her nerve and took a swig from an old bottle of mulled mead she'd gotten from Mrs. Weasley last Christmas. She could feel it burning a trail through her insides as she stepped outside her door and apparated into the night.

It was still rather early, and the club was quiet, the same few people milling about, sipping their drinks. She scanned the top bar, wondering vaguely if she had made a mistake showing up by herself. A few men seemed to be leering at her from their stools.

She hurried down the steps and examined the lower bar, and then - Hermione felt her stomach turn over. At the far end of the bar sat the same tall figure, hunched over a sifter. She took a few steps toward him and stopped. It did seem idiotic, now, to ramble into a muggle pub to meet an ex-Death Eater – but – it felt strangely purposeful, and he of all people knew she wasn't defenseless. Hermione steeled herself, gripped the handle of her wand and approached him, slipping up to the bar.

Draco Malfoy's head turned slowly towards her and Hermione's heart seemed to plummet into her knees. Despite the thunderous expression on his face, he was still – he was still much better looking than she'd remembered, although the black clothing seemed to make him look even more ghostly pale by comparison.

After a moment of staring at the apparition beside him, Malfoy spoke. "Goddamnit, Granger," he hissed, "I finally find an establishment where I can drink myself into oblivion in peace and now you're intent on spoiling that for me too."

"What if I like this bar, Malfoy? What if I want to have a drink too? You don't own the place, as far as I know-ooh, sorry sir, I'll have a gin & tonic. With lime, please." She directed this at the surly bartender, who was lurking about, shooting them rude looks.

"And you have to sit right here in order to do that?" Malfoy sneered, "There have to be thousands of muggle pubs in this city. Go find someone else to bother and leave me the fuck alone, why don't you?"

Hermione took a deep breath, bracing herself before turning to face Malfoy. "I just have to ask," she began, earnestly, "Why you're-"

"In a muggle pub? We've been over this. Several times. I like the peace and quiet."

"But you-"

"Think muggles are filfth? Think you're filth?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Malfoy stood up and threw a few pounds onto the bar, stopping to fix Hermione with one last scornful look. "I'd have thought you would have realized by now that it's a bit more complicated than that."

Malfoy turned and stalked off, leaving Hermione staring after him, more confused than ever.

_The nerve of her! To walk into the same bar, with that stupid low-cut top and that jacket, hair all over the place, and try and talk to him. It was just like her, arrogant bint that she was, to assume Draco wanted to talk about his feelings in a bar, as though being in a muggle establishment wasn't low enough. And fuck all, if she didn't smell like some delicious vanilla-y fruit. Good enough to eat, Granger was._

_Malfoy had thought about it before, how she'd feel, the way she'd respond to his touch. He wagered a lot of wizards had. She was so buttoned up all the time. Unattainable. He shook himself and tried to rid himself of Hermione Granger, but that wild haired girl in the bar was something else entirely. _

**The Gallivant, 9 am**

"It's an obsession, Hermione," Angelina Johnson sipped her iced coffee through a straw. The girls were sitting at brunch, dining on several variations of eggs on toast. Hermione was picking at her scrambled eggs, feeling somewhat put out. She had just finished relaying the previous night's events to much surprise and quite a bit of skepticism.

"Too right you are," Ginny nodded at this, giving Hermione a pointed look, "You've gone completely mental. There's no other real explanation for it. I can't believe you didn't even ask us if we wanted to get pissed with you!"

"I wasn't going to 'get pissed', Ginny, it was more of an experiment."

"An experiment?!"

"I just want to understand," Hermione paused, as if looking for the right word, "How he went from what he was before the War to what he is now – "

"I can't imagine," Hannah said, "That given what he went through after the war, and during it, probably, he'd still be the same git we went to school with. He didn't just have an epiphany over tea one day. None of us are the same."

Ginny and Angelina nodded, their expressions changing slightly. Ginny's gaze was dull in the light of the tea room, and you could see the dark smudges ringing Angelina's eyes. The War left its marks, both indelible and unseen, on everyone, even now. Their presence was felt all the time, but sometimes it was suffocating.

Hermione sighed. "I know you're right, I just– I just – I don't know. It's like he's a riddle I want to figure out, or something. I'm not used to-"

"Not being able to read a book about it?" Ginny smirked, stirring her tea, "You're starting to make it sound like you want to get into his knickers, you little minx."

"It's not that!" sputtered Hermione, "He's just more – complex than I thought!"

"Well, ex death eater or not, he's definitely working out," Angelina said, with an appreciative eyebrow wiggle, "I may be engaged but I'm certainly not blind. The man's fit as hell, and once you get past his aggressive pureblood family, the whole broody villain thing he's got going on is sort of-"

"Hot?" Ginny finished, "Or – complex, as Hermione so eloquently puts it."

"Now that Lucius has been pardoned, though-" Hannah put in, grapping another crumpet from a tray and taking an overlarge bite.

"Pardoned, my ass. He's still a twat," Ginny said, definitively. "Harry did say that Draco's been much better at work. Been helping out a lot around the auror offices and everything, and he gives really invaluable information on tracking former Death Eaters, seeing that he WAS ONE."

"So was Snape, for Godric's sake! And I'm not trying to justify his actions, I'm just saying that it seems very plausible that he's grown up a bit."

"But Draco wasn't exactly trying to save Harry's life, correct?"

"Look, if you want to 'get to know him', Hermione, I'm all for it," Angelina giggled. Hermione fixed her with a very scornful look. She was extremely annoyed at all of them for not – understanding why she needed to understand him so very badly. And why did she need to? It didn't have anything to do with – the way he looked at her, did it? Ron had never looked at her like that. Like he could devour her.

She shivered and glanced out the window. The girls had fallen into conversation about the Harpies season, and Hermione's mind was wandering back to the bar, next to Draco Malfoy.

**The Black Cat, 10 pm**

"Well, look who it is. Couldn't stay away, could you?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Malfoy." Hermione couldn't keep the nerves out of her voice. Whatever had possessed her to get dressed up again and apparate to the club had somehow dissipated, and now the entire experience felt positively nerve-wracking.

"Tell me Granger," Draco finished his bourbon, tracing the rim of the glass with a long finger, "Why is it you keep coming back? Are you feeling a bit masochistic? or- "

"You could have stayed away," Hermione interrupted, "If you didn't want to see me. You said it yourself, there's thousands of muggle pubs in London. Plenty of room for both of us to drink in peace."

"Maybe I didn't want to stay away, Granger," he rasped, "Maybe, I'm wondering why the Ministry's golden girl has elected to waste her Friday nights on me."

"Waste seems like a rather strong word," Hermione said, lightly. She had ordered another gin and tonic and was stirring it incessantly, since she couldn't figure out what else to do with her hands.

"You don't get out much, do you?" Malfoy stated this like a fact, and Hermione raised her eyebrows.

"What makes you say that?"

"An assumption, based on your work schedule, and the fact that you've decided to start frequenting a muggle pub by yourself. You still haven't explained why you're here. Has Potter put you up to surveillance?"

"Why would you just automatically assume I'm spying on you?" Hermione asked, trying to keep her voice level.

"Because I can't think of why else you'd be here."

"We've known each other for years, Malfoy, it's not so out of the realm of-"

"What do you want to know, Granger?" Malfoy spoke quietly, every word deliberate. "You want to know about trauma? My family? How a former death eater's been adjusting to polite society?"

Hermione flinched a bit, trying to disguise it as a shift in her posture. He didn't sound angry, but there was venom laced into the words. "Err…no, I was just – it seemed like you might-"

"What?"

"Need some company. I don't know!" She exclaimed, a little hysterically, "Frankly, I have no idea why I'm here!"

"Don't you have better things to do?"

"You want to know the truth?" Hermione turned towards him, one hand clutching her drink. She took a long swig, mostly gin, and tried to gulp it down without making a face. "I don't really. Have anything better to do, that is." She felt herself blush, and blessedly, Malfoy didn't say anything. He took a swig of his drink and fiddled with the napkin in front of him.

"Can't say that I don't know how that feels," he said, quietly. Hermione fought back surprise at these words, maybe the first civil thing Draco Malfoy had ever said to her. "But, quite honestly, Granger, I'm not exactly interested in your personal shit. Not sure if you'd noticed, but I've got enough of my own to handle."

He stood up, chucking a few pounds on to the bar. "That should take care of your drink." He went to pull on his great coat and Hermione did something very out of character.

"Don't leave." She had not meant to touch him, hadn't meant to reach out her hand, hadn't meant to lay it on his sleeve. Malfoy stared at the hand and looked up at her. He shook his head, slightly, pulled on his coat and turned for the door.

Hermione got up and hurried after him, catching up to him on the street outside the pub. It was still relatively early, and muggles wound around them, their excited chatter filling the streets with sound. She wound around a couple standing beneath a streetlight and managed to step in front of him, and that was when it hit her.

The smell of him, musky and whiskey tinged. His height, the solid bulk of him, the way he looked down at her. He grabbed her arm, a fierce look in his eye.

"Don't, Granger," he whispered.

"Don't what?" She breathed, unable to think straight. Godric, was she really that hard up?

With that, he pulled his arm away and disappeared into the night. Hermione was left, arm outstretched, heart beating, an ache in her that she hadn't even known still existed.

**The Black Cat, 1 week later**

"You're early." Draco slid in beside Hermione, his familiar frame folding into the bar stool. The surly bartender slid a bourbon over the bar before he'd so much as taken his coat off.

"Bad day," said Hermione, who was suddenly very aware of her disastrous hair and drab work clothes.

"I can see that," Draco gestured to her cup, which was filled halfway with whiskey.

"It's just – " Hermione began, her frustration bubbling to the surface. She was a few drinks deep and had been seething for the past hour, her hands shaking and her legs bouncing, trying to channel her energy into drinking.

"Granger-" Malfoy held up a hand "I'm not going to sit here and listen to you complain about-"

"Malfoy, honestly, shut up," Hermione said, not listening, "I've had a horrific day and I'm so tired of old wizarding politics governing everything that goes on at the ministry. No matter what I do, no matter how many reports I draft or eyewitnesses I bring up, no one wants to acknowledge that every fucking unicorn that disappears is tied to this massive illegal potions scam that half the ministry won't shut up about."

She took a deep breath and continued. "And no matter what Harry says, or anyone else, no one will listen to me! These potions are dangerous and if we catch who's been poaching the unicorns and draining their blood, we can round up the potion makers who are selling those ghastly solutions on the black market. Anyways."

"Merlin, Granger," Malfoy raised his eyebrows at her heaving chest, "Has anyone ever told you you're a bit high strung?"

"Most people don't put it that kindly," Hermione said mutinously, taking another large gulp of her drink, "What do you think of all this?"

"What, the potions? Or listening to your lectures?"

"The potions, you arse."

Malfoy drew a finger over the rim of his glass. "Maybe you don't want to know what I think, Granger."

"I promise you, I do."

"You're right, to some degree. The unicorn blood is a massively overpriced entity of the illegal potions market. But the people who are buying and selling those potions aren't the people you'd think they are. They're not the ones poaching the unicorns, they're just trying to make a living in a vastly unfriendly world."

"What do you mean?" Hermione was taken aback by his response. It seemed almost empathetic, understanding.

"Think about it, Granger," He said, turning towards her in his seat. "Families of death eaters. Sympathizers with the Dark Lord. Not all of them went to Azkaban, or truly deserved to go. But they're still ostracized for their association with The Dark Lord. So they fall back to illegal means to support their families."

"So – what you're saying is that they're justified in what it's doing to the wizarding population?"

"I'm not saying that, Granger," Draco turned back to his drink, and Hermione could feel a wall going up again. "I'm just saying that nothing is as simple as it seems to be from the outset. You have to understand the complexity of the situation."

Hermione hesitated. "That's what you said about yourself, isn't it?"

Malfoy smiled, but there was no humor in his face. "Casts a bit of a different light on it, doesn't it? Don't worry, Granger, I'm not selling illegal potions. Even after our reparations, we're still pretty fucking rich."

"But what did you mean – when you said – "

"Maybe I'll tell you, Granger, someday. But right now's not the time."

Hermione nodded, but didn't say anything. It was an odd feeling, Malfoy making a statement about the future, as if they would keep coming to this bar and sitting in these seats and making strained conversation for as long as the liquor held out.

Today felt different from the previous weeks. Their conversation took on an easier quality, warmth flooding Hermione as she drank and talked in equal measure. They discussed the potions scams, the issue with black market trading of highly classified goods (unicorn blood being top of the list) and the various capacities in which Malfoy was assisting at the Ministry. Hermione was a little thrown off by how smart he was, how oddly self-possessed and funny he could be. She racked her brains, trying to reconcile this person before her with the memory from Hogwarts, but – she couldn't do it.

"So," she said, what felt like a few hours in, resting her head on her hand, "So, do you have – a girlfriend? Or are you – engaged?"

"Very subtle, Granger," Malfoy countered, "No, I am not. Not for lack of trying on my parent's part, but I'm a bit," he paused, "selective, as it would appear."

"Selective?" Hermione scoffed, "How did Pansy Parkinson qualify?"

"Granger, I'd have hoped you would have thought more of me by now."

"Not in school I didn't."

"Alright," he sighed, "Fair. Pansy and I had something of a fling, but it ended after I signed my soul over to the Dark Lord."

Hermione took this opportunity to study his face, the way the angles created shadow and light, the way it moved across his face, "I remember." He looked less like his mother now, less like something foul was sitting right under his nose. Sometimes Hermione could swear she saw a bit of Sirius in the set of his jaw, in his eyes when he smiled. It was oddly endearing.

Malfoy finished his drink. A few strands of white blonde had fallen over his forehead, and his eyes were bright. He considered her for a second and then spoke.

"And you? Still with the red haired weasel?"

"I'd have thought you knew by now," Hermione said, finding herself amused by the look on Malfoy's face, "It was in all the papers, unfortunately. We had a rather tumultuous break up."

"You realized he was an idiot?"

"He cheated on me." She spoke with finality, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice. It didn't matter how long it had been, it still made her feel small.

"He always was a twat," Malfoy said, quietly, after a few seconds. "I'm - sorry to hear that."

"Yes, well," Hermione said, softly, "It was for the best. We didn't really get along all that well after the war ended. It was a long time coming. We weren't doing much except fightingwhen it finally happened."

"You're not 'getting along' with anyone else, then?"

"No," Hermione paused and looked up at him, trying to keep her expression impassive. "Not really. I'm pretty busy."

"Not to busy to make an appearance here every Friday night, though?" Malfoy looked slightly amused, and Hermione's furious blush at his words did nothing to help it. "Don't worry, Granger, I won't tell anyone you're a bit taken with me."

"W-what?" she stammered, feeling suddenly unsteady, "I don't – don't be stupid. Stop laughing! I've got t-to go-" Pushing her bar stool back, she dragged herself to her feet, grabbed her coat, and attempted to stumble out, realizing very quickly that she was probably drunker than she'd ever been in her life. It wasn't that everything looked blurry, necessarily, it was just that she couldn't quite -

"Oh, no you're not, not by yourself," a firm hand fastened itself around her arm and steered her towards the door, "Even if you escape the questionable characters outside, you're going to splinch yourself if you try and apparate like this."

"You're a questionable character," mumbled Hermione, leaning into his shoulder.

"Am I?" Draco Malfoy smiled, a rare and unexpectedly pleasant occurrence. It was the last thing Hermione remembered, his face all lit up, before the world faded into blackness.

It was the sunlight that woke her, the ample streams of yellow splashed across her walls. Opening her eyes, Hermione processed the black and white framed picture of her parents that hung on her wall before the overwhelming urge to vomit took over. She tossed back the covers and sprinted into the bathroom, emptying her stomach of what looked like half a bottle of bourbon before she slumped to the side.

Never again, she thought, ruefully. She couldn't believe she'd tried to keep up with Malfoy -

Wait.

Where was Malfoy? Her stomach dropped far enough to cause some more retching into the sink, which brought her attention to the massive Chudley Cannons t shirt she was wearing. She hadn't worn the shirt since her and Ron had broken up, which meant-

Oh, Godric.

She raced into her bedroom. The bed, though unusually rumpled, was empty. The kitchen and living room were both spotless and blessedly, empty. Hermione sighed in relief. She must have come home knackered, thrown a t shirt on and gotten into bed. Besides, she didn't think Malfoy could make it through her wards, although – there was a stipulation in them, a very complicated one that she'd made herself. She did not ward out specific people, rather she only allowed in those that she trusted.

But there was another part of it, the part that had taken weeks to perfect. Those people had to themselves be trustworthy. It was an odd way to protect her home, but Hermione found that it was much less complicated that way. That was how she knew Ron had cheated on her, when the wards wouldn't let him through.

And Malfoy must not have – she paused. There it was, just sitting on the kitchen table. A note folded up next to a tiny bottle of blue potion. Hands shaking, she unfolded it.

_It's a sober up potion. Maybe next time stick to gin? _

_DM_

Hermione sat down hard in a kitchen chair, her insides quaking. She felt lightheaded, running through the possibilities. Had he taken her home and left? Had he slept there? Had he undressed her and put the Canons shirt on?

Oh, Godric. How could she have been so stupid? Hermione studied the bottle for a moment, and then uncorked it. She sniffed it warily. It smelled like ginger, which was one of the key characteristics of a sober up potion. It couldn't make her feel worse than she already did, so she downed it in one go.

Almost immediately, her head cleared, and her stomach settled. She felt completely fine, other than her crippling anxiety and exhaustion, which left her with the one, looming reality. Malfoy had made it through the wards. What did that mean?


	3. Chapter 3

**The Bluebell Café, 2 days later**

"Malfoy."

"Why is it that you choose the strangest goddamn place to try and seduce me, Granger? If you want a good lay, all you've got to do is ask."

Hermione glared at him. They were sitting in the Bluebell Café, behind a precarious looking bookcase in a far corner. She was surprised he'd even shown up after the memo she'd sent this morning, but Hermione wasn't about to let his intrusion into her flat go. Malfoy had skulked in, his chin sunk into his collar, but he'd straightened as soon as he'd seen how empty the tiny restaurant was, spotting Hermione and dropping into the chair across from her with his strange, practiced grace.

"So," Malfoy said, conversationally, "How are you feeling?"

"You know damn well that I'm fine," she began, teeth gritted, "How did you get into my flat?"

"The way most people get into their homes, Granger, I walked right through the door."

"Malfoy," Hermione said, ignoring this, "I had a different shirt on. Did you – did you-"

"Did I see you in your knickers?" Malfoy smirked at her, "What did you want me to do, leave you in your vomit covered sweater?"

"Vomit covered?" Hermione said, shrilly, "What do you mean, vomit covered?"

"Calm down, Granger, I think the floo home just made you a little sick. I got you into a clean t shirt and put you to bed, alright? I may be an evil git but I'm not a pervert."

"Merlin's pants," she groaned, putting her hands over her eyes, "I cannot believe I did that. This just isn't like me, I don't DO things like –"

"Relax, Granger," Malfoy said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands across his knee, the picture of nonchalance. "It wasn't the worst Friday night I've ever had. You're a lot nicer when you're tossed."

Hermione shot him a look. "Is this just a massive laugh for you?"

"A bit, yeah."

"I've got to go," She was starting to feel sick again, annoyance at the smug look on Malfoy's face expanding in her chest. "Don't do that again."

"What," Amusement still danced across Malfoy's face at Hermione's futile attempts to untangle her cloak from the strap of her bag, "Help you?"

"You know that is not what I meant."

"Isn't it?" he said, standing up, his face inches from Hermione's. "Catch you later, Granger." With that, he strode out of the café, banging the door on the way out.

_He couldn't stop thinking about it, if he was being honest with himself. She'd thrown up a little bit the minute they'd gotten through the door of the flat, so he'd sat her down on her bed and pulled the jacket and the sweater off. Draco's breath had caught in his throat at the sight of her. She'd sat there, curls everywhere, her skin glowing in the lamplight. She wore a filmy, lacy little bra, her nipples nearly visible through the fabric, the slope of her chest enough to make his mouth water. _

_He pulled the shirt he'd grabbed out of her bureau over her head and she'd smiled at him, putting her arms through the sleeves and collapsing back with a mumbled "I'm sleepy."_

**The Black Cat, Friday night**

"So your marriage will be – what – arranged?" asked Hermione, giggling at the utter preposterousness of Malfoy having to court a woman like Astoria Greengrass, who she thought was a bit of a pretentious tart, really.

"You make it sound so romantic," Malfoy sighed, "But yeah, I suppose, it's a bit of a political power move. Demonstrates which pureblood families have the upper hand."

"But what about love?"

"What about love, Granger?"

"Don't you, I don't know, want to be in love?"

"Love is for" Malfoy paused., "Fucking idiots, Granger. These arrangements are supposed to foster respect, and admiration not – love – love is too unpredictable. And it makes people do foolish things."

"Well," said Hermione, decisively, "I think I'd rather be in love. Even if it does make me a - how did you put it? Fucking idiot."

Malfoy rolled his eyes at her. "I wouldn't expect you to understand how these things work– "

"How do you mean?" Hermione interrupted, "Conducting a marriage like a business arrangement?"

"Please, Granger."

"What about Astoria, then? What's so wonderful about Astoria Greengrass?"

Malfoy scoffed. "In the words of my dear mother, she's a respectable, pureblood girl. I mean, not too put too fine a point on it, but– she cares about her appearance, for one thing," he paused, shooting Hermione a look.

"If you're going to make another comment about my hair-"

"I was more talking about the jumper -this is the third time I've seen you wearing it this week, you know."

"It's comfortable!"

"It's got cat hair all over it."

She punched his arm, hard, which in turn made the bourbon in his glass slosh onto the counter. The surly bartender began sponging it up with a very dirty looking rag.

"Now, look what you've done," Malfoy admonished, blotting the bourbon off his sleeve.

"Serves you right, arrogant arse," Hermione said, finishing her drink and pushing the glass to the edge of the counter. She turned towards Malfoy, propping a foot on the rung of his barstool.

"Have you gone on a date with her, then?"

"Why, are you going to pass judgement on that, too?"

"No," Hermione mused, accepting a 4th drink from the bartender, "I was just wondering what sorts of things you do on a pureblood date. Do you drink tea? Compare house elves? Review shared relatives?"

"You're unbelievably annoying, did you know that?" Malfoy said, exasperated, "What sort of dates are you going on, then, Granger? I can't imagine Weaselbee was very creative."

"Well, the last date I went on _was_ a bit unfortunate."

"Unfortunate?"

"Well, it would have been tolerable but Cormac sort of – well, I suppose the only real word for it is molested – me during the second course, and after that it was a bit of a wash."

"Cormac McLaggen? You're too good for him, Granger."

"Was that – a compliment?" Hermione grinned at him, "Wonders never cease."

"Don't fish," Malfoy said, eyes narrowed. "You know you are. You were too good for Weasley too, but I think you puzzled that one out yourself."

Hermione rolled her eyes and sipped her drink. The feeling in her chest was warm, and relaxed and – there was something she couldn't name there. A feeling of anticipation, of – was it butterflies? She couldn't tell. Their banter was oddly satisfying, ranging from mindless, run of the mill goings-on, to potion making and politics. Malfoy's life seemed to have retained some normalcy, even after all the community service and reparations, his family living quietly in a completely refurbished house in Wiltshire.

"We couldn't leave it the way it was," Malfoy said, pressing the tips of his fingers together in an oddly Dumbledore – like gesture, "Too dark. Felt like – he – was sort of lurking about."

"I'd imagine the basement dungeon was sort of a downer," said Hermione, wryly. She was pleased to see Malfoy grin, his eyes a little brighter after the 6th? 7th? Bourbon.

"Actually, my mother had it converted into a sitting room. Father uses it when he wants to close a deal, the chains on the wall usually speed things up a bit."

Hermione found herself doubled over with laughter at this, Malfoy snickering at her mirth. Oddly, all this talk about the War did not make her feel as forlorn as it normally did. It felt sort of comforting, conversing with someone who understood the weight of it, even from a different – well, perspective felt like the only polite way to categorize 'former Death Eater'. And something about the five years since had mellowed Draco Malfoy to the point of funny, snarky humor, his words less pointed barbs and more witty commentary.

It was then that he admitted to her that he had a date with Astoria Greengrass next Friday night. Hermione felt a twinge of disappointment and something – beneath it. An ache, or maybe a burning. Was she angry?

Maybe it was the gin.

**The Black Cat, 1 week later**

"So? How did it go, then?" Malfoy slid in next to Hermione, not even bothering to take off his coat. She'd been sitting there for awhile, nursing a drink and reading a new book she'd gotten in Diagon Alley about Ancient Runes.

"Has anyone ever told you not to read in a bar, Granger? It's ruining everyone's night."

Hermione ignored this, marking her page and sliding the book back into her bag. She passed him the bourbon she'd ordered and Malfoy had the good grace not to look surprised that she remembered he was partial to Bushmills Red. It was a shit whiskey, but Malfoy didn't need to know that.

"It was fucking horrible, Granger, are you happy?" He shot at her, taking a large swig of amber liquid and grimacing.

"No, I'm not happy, I just thought – "

"I think we can assume," Malfoy said, swinging his coat over the chair and hunching over his glass, "That it did not go well, based on the fact that I am here, with you, and not whisking Astoria back to my flat."

"What happened?" Hermione tried to keep the glee out of her voice, but a dirty look from Malfoy told her that she had not succeeded.

"Try not to sound so pleased," he replied, "She's a bit too pretentious for my liking, and she still seems to think I'm some kind of – pureblood royalty. It's a bit disturbing, given the current situation."

"Isn't that sort of the pot calling the kettle black?"

Malfoy glanced at her, eyebrows raised. "You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Well, don't get me wrong, I'm sure she's lovely, but-"

"Save it, Granger," Malfoy smirked, "I'm not that shallow."

"Anymore?"

Malfoy shot her a scathing look and took another large gulp of whiskey.

Hermione smiled to herself, her heart jumping a little in her chest. She had been pleasantly surprised that he'd shown up, and she couldn't deny the giddy feeling that the date had gone poorly – although the simple fact that she was so happy made her a little uncomfortable.

"So," she nudged his shoulder, "Who's the next victim, then?"

"While I take great offense at you assuming a date with me would be that miserable," Malfoy replied, nudging her back, which gave Hermione sudden, tingling, goosepimples up both arms, "I have no idea. Which means my parents will take it upon themselves to unearth some prospect for me."

"Nice hair? Very straight teeth? Impeccably good taste in clothes? Huge tits?"

"Sounds about right," smirked Malfoy. "Emphasis on the tits."

"She sounds like an absolute dream," Hermione said, "Except, she's probably unbelievably boring. Never read a book in her life." She slurped down a measure of gin. "And mental. Really batty."

"Sounds like my type, then."

"What is your type, Malfoy?"

"Witches with large bank accounts and loose morals."

Hermione giggled at this and then hiccupped loudly, covering her mouth with her hand. "Er – excuse me," she said, giggling harder at the abject horror on Malfoy's face. "S-sorry!" she exclaimed, "I just – HIC – can't help it." She ducked quickly under the bar, pointed her wand at her throat, and emerged a few seconds later, the hiccups gone.

Malfoy shook his head in bewilderment. "Absolutely abominable manners, Granger. Quite disgusting."

"I have to ask," Hermione said, ignoring him and shuffling herself back onto her stool, "Why is it you don't just ask out someone you like, rather than waiting for your parents to decide?"

"Because, Granger," he said, waspishly, as if the answer was very obvious, "That just isn't how things are done, is it?"

"I think-" Hermione took another too large sip and choked on her drink, coughing and spluttering, "Damnit," she rasped, "What I'm trying to say is – excuse me –" she coughed again, "Sorry, I just – "

"Very attractive," Malfoy sneered at her attempts to clear her throat, "You must be beating the wizards off with a stick."

"Oh, Ha ha," she said, clearing her throat loudly. She took a moment to glance past the bar, studying the people around them. They'd been playing a killer mix of old, angsty classics – lots of Blink 182, the Doors, the Strokes and U2, and everyone was dancing and throwing back mixed shots, singing along to the words.

"We're at a dance club, you know," she said, absentmindedly, still watching the people behind her, "Have you ever thought about – well, dancing?"

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. "I dance, Granger, I just don't - do that-" he gestured to the couple nearest to them, who were sort of grinding and trying to snog at the same time. "Sort of thing," he scoffed, "My skillset is more refined."

"Alright then," Hermione jumped off her stool and held out a hand, "Why don't you show me?"

"What do you mean, show you? I'm not going out there," he replied, gesturing out to the throngs of people a few feet from their corner.

"Show me your 'refined skillset', Malfoy. I imagine that means you've got more in your repertoire than that awful waltz at the Yule Ball."

"This song is abominable, Granger. I'm not dignifying it with a paso doble."

Hermione grinned at him, grabbed his hand and yanked him up, just as the song changed from Riders on the Storm to an uncharacteristically slow song – Hermione thought it might have been Lana Del Rey.

"Come here," she beckoned him towards her, gesturing at her waist, "Just put your hand here-"

"Granger, please," Suddenly, he was grasping her waist, his other hand twining itself in her fingers. Hermione could swear she felt at least 10 degrees warmer underneath his touch, like an electrical current was rippling underneath his skin.

Malfoy pulled her into the shadowy corner, spinning in rhythmic circles, his dark eyes trained at a spot above her left shoulder. They moved gracefully to the slow, intoxicating song, Hermione breathing in his heady scent and trying to keep herself upright. Her heart was beating so hard she could swear he must be able to feel it through his shirt.

_No one even knows how hard life was_

_I don't even think about it now, because_

_I finally found you._

_Now my life is sweet like cinnamon, like a fucking dream I'm living in._

The song ended; the last notes remixed into the beginning of Whatever Happens by the Strokes. Hermione realized that she was leaning into his shoulder, Draco's chin tucked around her neck. She sprang back, nearly losing her balance on a speaker cord snaking across the floor.

"Oh-oh no," she yanked her shoe free, "That was – " Malfoy caught her arm before she tumbled to the floor and she did her best not to meet his eye. "Thanks, er – what time is it?"

Malfoy's eyes were dancing in the dim light, languid amusement painting his features. Slowly, he checked his watch, an obnoxious contraption affixed to a gold chain.

"It's about half 2, Granger. Past your bedtime?"

"Oh, God, 1:30 am?"

"Well, surely it's not 1:30 pm."

"Merlin's PANTs," she shrieked, "I've got to get home!"

"Pardon?"

Hermione rushed back to her stool, grabbing her coat and bag. "I haven't been home since 6 pm, I haven't fed Crookshanks and I've got some idiotic weekend press conference tomorrow on accidental muggle sightings of magical creatures, so – " she stopped, looking at Malfoy, who was staring at her, hands in his pockets. "What?"

"Nothing, Granger," he said, "Run along, now."

"Alright, alright," she yanked on her coat and made to turn towards the door but stopped abruptly. She slowly turned back to face him. "This was fun."

"Pleasure's all mine, Granger."

"Yes, alright. Good. See you." Hermione wondered exactly what it was that had robbed her of her ability to have a normal conversation with Draco Malfoy, but she made a beeline for the door before he made any rude comments about her asinine goodbye or beet red cheeks.

**1455 Grimstead Way, 6 pm**

"You did WHAT?"

Hannah Abbott's mouth dropped halfway open as Hermione relayed last night's events to Ginny, Hannah, Angelina and Luna over an early dinner at Hermione's apartment. Luna was quite the chef, and she'd somehow concocted a truly delicious steak and kidney pie. Hermione, who was rubbish in the kitchen, had provided store brought rolls, and Hannah and Angelina had brought dessert and several bottles of cheap wine. They'd been digging into the pie when Ginny had begun questioning Hermione about her Friday night, which led to a chorus of "no you did not's!" from the girls.

"You're in too fucking deep now, Mione," Ginny forked a large piece of pie into her mouth and glowered at Hermione, "What did I tell you last week?"

"There's no indication that he has any feelings for me," Hermione exclaimed, "It's a dance club. We danced!"

"Oh, no, you did not," Angelina said, grinning like a cat, "You did not run into him on the dance floor and start rubbing up on him, or whatever the kids do," she waved her knife in Hermione's direction, "You had a romantic little slow dance in the corner, like a couple of horny teenagers."

"If I wasn't so disgusted, I'd be impressed," Ginny said, pulling another roll onto her plate. "I couldn't pay Harry enough to dance with me at any Ministry event. Makes me think he's still carrying around some deep-seated trauma from the Yule Ball."

"We're all carrying around trauma from the Yule Ball," Hannah said, darkly, "I got roped into going with Zacharias Smith and the only time he stopped talking about what an incredible gift to the wizarding world he is was when I caught him snogging some Ravenclaw fifth year on the grounds. "

"Ooh, yes, Rose Atkinson! She was quite nice to me, you know," Luna smiled reassuringly at Hannah, who sighed loudly and attacked her potatoes with renewed fervor.

"You'll get another chance to ask him at the DRCMC gala," Hermione said, pouring herself more wine, "I think quite a lot of people are coming."

"Question is," Hannah shot Hermione a pointed look, "Will a certain blonde Slytherin be in attendance?"

"Oh HO!" Ginny exclaimed, pointing her fork at Hermione, "Will he?" The other girls looked expectantly at Hermione, who was pushing pieces of steak around her plate, her cheeks hot.

"I don't know if he'll be there, alright? I didn't ask," she said, exasperatedly, "You are all ridiculous."

"You know why she didn't ask," Angelina whispered loudly, following it up with some loud smooching noises, at which Ginny began giggling madly.

Hermione rolled her eyes at the pair of them and stood up abruptly, bustling around the kitchen to hide her smile.

**The Ministry of Magic, 8:15 pm**

The music swelled to a pitch and the transformed floor of the Ministry foyer began to fill with dancers clad in brilliantly colored dress robes. Hermione Granger thought the effect of the hall was rather nice, with fairy lights suspended from the ceiling and massive swathes of gold and silver silk adorning the walls. She was leaning up against one of the refreshment tables, clutching an empty drink, watching. Ever since the old days, she'd had trouble with noise and large groups of people, and the Ministry's yearly Charity Gala was no exception. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical creatures had sponsored it this year, so she'd had to go, especially since the proceeds from tickets were partially going to her own project – the House Elf Protection & Relocation Fund.

She was having a nice time, sort of. Hermione was wearing her favorite set of navy velvet robes, and she'd done her hair (three applications of Sleekeazy's, plus quite a lot of bobby pins.) She'd had a couple of drinks and caught up with Harry and Ron, albeit briefly. It was always so hard at these things to have a real conversation, especially with the Boy Who Lived and Was in Talks for Minister, and all that.

And then, of course, there was Malfoy. He'd skulked in, wearing black robes (unsurprising) and was accompanied by a very irritated looking Blaise Zabini. Hermione didn't think he'd seen her yet, as she had been hiding by the drinks table for over an hour, nursing a half empty bottle of butterbeer.

"What an evening," Ginny sauntered up, laden with drinks. She was wearing dark green and gold robes and her auburn hair was braided back, making her look like a woodland nymph. "D'you want one?"

"Oh," Hermione bit her lip and looked down at her bottle, "I don't know, Ginny, I've had two already and I've got this meeting in the morning-"

"That's what I thought," Ginny said, handing her a brimming glass of something that was smoking slightly. "Come on, Hermione, let your hair down a bit. These things are supposed to be fun; you know? I just saw Ludo Bagman's nephew finish about half a bottle of Firewhiskey and do a handstand while singing 'Odo the Hero' and you're over here skulking about and watching Ron and Romilda feel each other up on the dance floor."

"I am not skulking about," Hermione muttered, taking a large swig of her drink. The fiery liquid made her feel a little warm around the edges. "Is that really Romilda Vane?"

"Yes, it's disgusting," said Ginny, "Still just as batty as she was at Hogwarts, except her tits are bigger. Which explains why Ron's taking a liking to her. Anyways, did you see Malfoy?"

"Mmm?" countered Hermione, trying to sound innocent.

"Oh, please, Hermione, I know you saw him walk in. Are you planning on talking to him at all, or are you going to wander about and pretend you haven't been meeting him at a bar every week for the past month?"

Hermione sighed, shrugging her shoulders. "I hadn't really considered it yet. Who knows if he even wants to talk to me?"

"Hermione, you're being difficult." Ginny tapped the bottom of her drink and gave her a little push in Malfoy's direction. Now he was standing by a massive tree draped in fairy lights, bourbon in hand, talking to Zabini and a blonde Unspeakable in deep purple robes. "Finish your drink and just walk over there, alright? I'm not letting you feel sorry for yourself all night."

So, Hermione, not really knowing what compelled her to do so, finished the smoking cocktail, grimaced slightly, and began making her way across the dance floor, edging past the hundreds of employees whirling about. It was a bit of a trek, mainly because she kept having to greet people and engage in polite conversation - Dedalus Diggle, Kingsley, three junior members of the DRCMC, McGonagall, Andromeda Tonks and a very enthusiastic assistant undersecretary to the Minister who wanted an autograph, among others. By the time she emerged onto the other side of the room, Malfoy, leaning up against a marble column, was alone and smirking at her.

She caught his eye, and he cocked his head towards the hallway that opened out of the Ministry's atrium. Catching on, she followed him out, slipping behind the column and out of view.

"Granger," Malfoy was leaning against a wall, arms folded over his dress robes. He looked a bit drunk, but still, unfortunately, very handsome. He gave her a once over, making Hermione blush slightly. "You look – pretty good."

"Always the tone of surprise," she replied, clasping her hands behind her back. "I'm surprised you showed up."

"I wouldn't have, except our family made a massive donation to – what's it called – HEPRF?"

Hermione stared at him blankly. "But that's-that's my foundation, Malfoy. I didn't see your name on the donor list."

"Yes, well, it was made under the name 'Desole'."

"Not – Hugo Desole?"

"Unfortunately," Draco said, sounding more than a little inebriated, "I must admit our motives were entirely selfish, but I did get invited to this mediocre event, so I suppose it was worth it."

Hermione eyed him, shockwaves reverberating through her brain. Hugo Desole had donated thousands of galleons to her cause. But – the donation –

"Malfoy…" she began, "Malfoy, that donation came in two weeks ago."

Malfoy picked at one of his nails, avoiding her gaze. "What's your point?"

"That was – well – " she stopped abruptly at the look on his face. "That was very generous of you, Malfoy. You have no idea how much it helped us."

Malfoy didn't reply. He was quiet, studying the wall behind Hermione, his face now expressionless. Hermione twisted her fingers together, trying to come up with something inane, something casual to fill the silence. It was all so bizarre – this person that she'd thought she'd known for so long, completely unrecognizable. Draco Malfoy had been cruel, cowardly and arrogant during school, a disgusting reminder of her own insecurities, but now – maybe her ability to forgive was greater than she realized, or his actual personality had been buried under years his pureblood birthright. Hermione supposed Harry had understood it unconsciously before the rest of them had, because Harry, like Malfoy, was in over his head from a very early age. They both carried legacies, heavy ones, and both felt the weight even now.

"I have to ask, though – why didn't you use your own name? We could have recognized you in the Prophet, at the very least – "

"It wouldn't have helped much anyway," Malfoy said, derision creeping back into his voice. "People are very determined to dislike us." He pushed off the opposite wall and approached her, Hermione trying very hard not to breathe in that musky, piney smell as he drew nearer. "Maybe I wanted to atone for my sins a little bit."

"Well, if you're trying to get in my good graces-"Hermione said, trying to avoid his gaze, without much success.

His smile was immediate and gratifying, like sunshine after a long downpour. "Granger, we both know that'll never happen."

Hermione registered at the same time he did that he was pressed close to her, their arms flush together against the wall. He pulled himself away, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair.

"So," she began, trying to fill the pressing silence with something other than awkwardness. "Are you staying for a bit longer? Or – "

Malfoy turned to look at her, another smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "What are you asking, Granger?"

"I don't think it's fair that you're always putting me on the spot," Hermione said, a bit waspishly, "You were wondering the same thing."

"Was I?"

"Don't _fish_," Hermione mimicked coolly, "I thought I'd get a drink after this horrendous affair, in fact, I was thinking maybe – just maybe, I'd like to get pissed and forget about how many people were whispering about Weasley and fucking," she swore, surprising herself, "fucking Romilda Vane. So, I don't have to keep thinking about – how –" Her hands were waving wildly, and she trailed off into nothing, suddenly on the verge of tears.

"Granger, shut up," Malfoy said, a strange forcefulness in his tone. "There's nothing wrong with you." He paused, blushing slightly, as if he'd said too much, too soon. "Well, actually, you have too much hair. And terrible taste in men."

She stared at him, taken aback. Had he just -

"Are you coming?" Malfoy turned on his heel and strode away from her, back down the hallway. He was halfway to the end of the corridor before he shot her an expectant look. "Let's get out of here."

**The Burrow, Sunday night**

"Why are you looking at me like that, Ronald?"

"What?" The red headed wizard sitting next to her nudged her playfully, offering her a drink from the bottle of firewhiskey in his lap. "I'm not! I swear! You just look different, is all."

"Different?" It was a dusky Sunday evening at the Burrow, and while Harry and Ginny had snuck off somewhere, Ron and Hermione sat outside on a little bench against the garden wall, watching the sun sink into a magenta sky. In typical fashion, Ron had nicked alcohol from the kitchen and was sharing it with Hermione, who was pleasantly warm and tipsy.

Most people thought it very strange that Hermione and Ron had stayed friends, which wasn't surprising. If they hadn't spent 7 years dodging Voldemort at Hogwarts together, or if they hadn't been best friends with the Boy who Lived and was Currently Shagging Ginny Weasley, she wasn't sure if they could have stayed so close, especially given Ron's 'affair'. But oddly enough, without the pressure of a relationship they were rather fond of each other, although it had taken Ron quite a bit of time to recover from the rather complicated hex Hermione had bestowed upon him when they had broken it off.

"Yeah, just – happier, maybe?"

Hermione looked at him. He had filled out a bit since Hogwarts. The way Ron carried himself was different too, more self assured. She was proud of him, although she knew that she'd always been proud of him.

Hermione shrugged. "I've been going to that muggle doctor. And-"she paused, mulling over her next words. "There's something else."

"Malfoy?" Ron said it so nonchalantly that Hermione almost didn't think anything of it, but when she'd processed it, she started violently, upsetting the firewhiskey in her lap.

"Oh, Godric, sorry Ron, I didn't mean to – here," she pulled out her wand, "Tergeo."

"That bad, huh?" he said, propping the bottle up against the bench and quirking an eyebrow at her. "Can't say I saw that one coming. Really thought you had better taste."

"Oh, shut up, Ronald," Hermione huffed, "It's not like that, alright? Whatever Harry's been telling you-"

"He did say it was your new SPEW, which is terrifying, really. Are you making "Befriend Draco Malfoy" badges?"

"Merlin's Pants!" she said, loudly, "You are both completely infuriating. All I did was have a few drinks with him, I'm not getting MARRIED –"

"More than a few drinks, by what I heard."

Hermione glared at him and lapsed into silence.

"Look, Hermione," Ron said, looking like he was trying not to smirk at her, "I'm not trying to give you shit about it, alright? It's just – unexpected. But you can have drinks with whoever you'd like."

"Oh, thank you so much for your permission," Hermione said sarcastically, "Really appreciate it."

"I'm just wondering how you selected Draco Malfoy as your drinking partner of choice, seeing as you never wanted to get pissed with me –"

"Oh please, Ronald, I'd have been in my cups every night of the damn week." Hermione said, sharply, leaning back on the bench. "I don't really know how it happened, alright? I just saw him in the pub one day and we started talking and I really think – I'm not just saying this, alright, but-" she looked imploringly at him, "I really think he's changed."

Ron shrugged. "Stranger things have happened, I suppose. I guess I just can't imagine him carrying on a conversation beyond 'filthy little mudblood' or 'wait til my father hears about this.'"

"He did rather overuse that in school, didn't he?"

"Look," said Ron, "I know you've got a hell of an arm on you, so just – be careful, Hermione." Hermione raised her eyebrows at him, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. "I'm serious! I still don't trust the bloke and we've no idea what sort of dodgy things he gets up to in his free time."

"That means a lot, actually," Hermione offered him a small smile, "Although, you're starting to sound like my dad, and it's a bit creepy."

"Urgh," Ron grimaced and took a long pull of whiskey, "That's revolting, Hermione. Shall we go inside and see if Mum's got any more of those biscuits?"

**1455 Grimstead Way, Monday night **

"I'll tell you what I think, and you're not going to like it," Ginny said, finishing her biscuit and brushing crumbs off her lap. Crookshanks, sensing the possibility of food, darted out from beneath the chair and lept onto the table, giving the box of digestives a very naughty look.

"Crooks – get back down –" Hermione shooed him off and then turned her attention to Ginny. "What?"

"I think you're in love with him, and you want to know the worst part?"

"Ginny, of all the ridiculous things – " Hermione began, dumbfounded.

"Will you let me finish?" Ginny set her mug down, "The worst part is that if what you've told me is true, I think he's in love with you too."

Hermione didn't say a single word. She was so utterly taken aback by what Ginny had said, she couldn't even form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence. Draco Malfoy? In love? It was stupid, and laughable.

"I don't think you understand," Hermione began again, trying to arrange her thoughts. "I'm not in love with him, and he's definitely not in love with me – we're just trying-I don't know- mend bridges? It's completely harmless!"

"If you really believe that, you're a lot thicker than I thought, Hermione. For Godric's sake, you've been going to that pub to see him for a MONTH. I'd think that was a bit suspect but he's been meeting you there! Every Friday! Without you even asking him to! And don't even get me started on this whole taking-you-home-and-getting-through-your-wards fiasco, because even you can agree that's not NORMAL."

"Listen to what you're saying," Hermione got up, pacing her kitchen, "You're saying that the pureblood who called me mudblood filth for the better part of 7 years is now somehow in love with me, even though he's been raised to believe I'm scum, and if he actually told his parents about it, they'd probably disown him!" she paused, breathing hard, mind racing. "And not to MENTION, I was tortured on his floor for hours. In his house. By his aunt. If that's not the most fucked up thing I've ever heard –" she stopped, feeling drained. Even after years of therapy, talking about Bellatrix's torture was still the hardest thing to comprehend, like a reality she couldn't reconcile with herself.

"Look," Ginny's expression was much softer now. "I'm not saying all of that isn't true. I'm just saying that you were the one who thought he'd changed. I'm not giving him the benefit of the doubt, necessarily, but I know you wouldn't fall in love with the Malfoy of 5 years ago, so something had to give."

"I am not falling in love with him!"

"Oh, you're not," the auburn witch looked smug, "You're already in love with him."

"How- "Hermione stared at her, shocked, "How do you know that? How can you prove that?"

"I can't." Ginny smiled, "It's a bit like Luna's blibbering humdingers. I can feel it, but I can't see it. I just know. You were never like this with Ron and based on knowing you for around 12 years I can sort of assume this is just how you act when you've caught feelings."

"Blibbering humdingers," Hermione muttered, feeling very overwhelmed with this onslaught of information, "Ridiculous. He's not in love with me, though, Ginny, even if I do have – you know. Irreconcilable feelings."

"Ah HAH," Ginny shrieked, pointing an accusatory finger at her, "So you admit it. He's pretty fit, Hermione, Angelina wasn't wrong."

"Well he's not interested in me like that, I can assure you."

"Are you mental? What other single wizard would meet you in a muggle bar every single Friday night? No offense, Hermione, I love you, but just think about that for a second."

Hermione shrugged. "Maybe he just likes the bar?"

"Oh sod off," Ginny checked her watch and then stood up and began pulling on her cloak, "I have to meet Harry at the burrow, but you need to tell me if anything happens, alright? Proclamations of love, gratuitous shagging, anything at all!"

"Say hi to Molly and the family for me," Hermione said, ignoring her question and giving her a hug. "I'll see you on Wednesday?"

"Wotcher," Ginny saluted and hurried out the door, apparating off the stoop a few seconds later.

Hermione cleared the mugs away and dropped into a chair to consider what Ginny had just told her.


End file.
